


Not his heart but his mind

by roseandthorns28



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Internal Monologue, Non-shippy - Freeform, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, post-Reichenbach Fall, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 17:48:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1478563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roseandthorns28/pseuds/roseandthorns28
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he sits waiting, his thoughts turn towards his city- London-, the city he left behind and with it the man who managed to earn the biggest gift Sherlock could ever give to anyone; </p><p>not his heart, but his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not his heart but his mind

He sat at the mouth of the dark alleyway on the damp newspaper, his beat-up hat tipped over his uncombed, unshorn hair, throwing a shadow on his disguised features. His clothes, tattered and filthy, hung loose, and smelled of fish and decay. All in all, he blended in with his surroundings looking the part of a homeless beggar, never earning a second look except one of disgust or pity.

People say disguise is an art. Idiots! It is a science through and through. Each component of the disguise one wore had to fit in with each other in perfect precision, each mannerisms had to be delivered with an unconscious effort and each disguise, as a whole, had to be fastidious in its conception. His time out of London, on the run- or chase- had given him ample opportunity, driven by a desperate need of concealing his true identity, to master the science of disguise. The world believed him to be dead. And so he was going to remain until the time was right, which would only be when he had sabotaged the whole operation of Moriarty’s.

His thoughts turned to the city he had left behind- the one he knew like the back of his hand. Any other man would have fretted about his friends, wondered about the past and the future- but no other man would ever be in this position; in an alley waiting for one of his archrival’s henchmen. _People don’t have archenemies_ , John had told him. Ironic that that very night was when he first heard of his real archenemy. His feud with his brother now felt – Sherlock cringed to think of it, but it was in fact – childish. He remembered the baffled look on John’s face when he was informed that Mycroft was indeed his brother. 

John H. Watson.

Sherlock Holmes shifted a little in his spot and carried on calling out for money and being thoroughly ignored. How utterly boring. He longed for the thrill of the chase. Waiting, it seemed, was the hardest part. So, he continued his train of thought, opening the door in his mind that he usually kept shut. The man wouldn’t be here before another hour- his routine was set like clockwork. He allowed himself to chuckle lightly at the volley of reactions he knew he could incite from John when he finally revealed that himself.

It had always interested him – the unusual reactions John had always awarded him with. In retrospect, he could successfully follow the line of thinking John would have had to cause such a reaction but he still surprised him. Sherlock had never let anyone close to him. Letting ordinary people become intimate with him only served as a constant reminder of how different he was from them, and how much better. But then, there had been John.

John Watson had entered his life when he had been extremely bored and desperate for change. He tried to accomplish the second by moving to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. But, he knew that the lull in cases he had faced could become a constant, to a point where he even been advised to advertise himself –as if he could stoop so low- , and he wouldn’t be able to afford the flat on his own. The flat was perfect for him and he didn’t want to move. That and the fact that he was bored out of his mind had prompted him to take up on the offer Mike would have eventually made after the driveling was over.

And, if his new flatmate was annoying or started becoming boring – which he suspected would happen rather soon- then, well Sherlock Holmes would soon be able to get rid of him. The fact that John Watson had actually appreciated- and had been impressed with- his deductions about his personal life had sealed the deal. Not that Sherlock was gasping for approval, he had no need of the acceptance of people below him in caliber and intellect but it was the fact that John had been able to albeit unintentionally surprise him. His penchant for experimentation had not been the only thing that made him get John to chase a cab halfway through London in pursuit of half a shot of catching a serial killer. If John was going to be around, he would need to keep pace with Sherlock. Another thing that John had accomplished by the end of the day had been to make Sherlock laugh in mirth, not condescension.

And, slowly, the doctor had carved a niche in Sherlock’s world and gradually became more than a flatmate. He became a friend.

He became more of a constant than a distraction. However, unlike what he had expected, John never became boring- well, sometimes when he was talking about drivel but then Sherlock had not mastered the ability of tuning out people for naught. The rest of the times, John gave him adulation without being a sycophant; he reprimanded him without being repetitive and irritating. He teased  him, opposed him, helped him, listened to him, praised him, and understood him. He wasn’t terribly stupid, actually capable of intelligent conversation, yet not enough to give him competition, or to clash with him, like his _brother dear_.

Hence, John Watson became a friend and loyal companion to Sherlock Holmes.

In return, Sherlock gave him his mind. His mind- the most powerful tool, his most potent weapon. He had opened his mind to John, shared his ideas, his doubts, even at one point his fears. He had explained his thought process, his method of deduction. He had never done that. Except when Lestrade was being exceptionally dense. But, with John, he did it for the pure astonishment and adoration he received. He knew to romantics like John, his mental faculties were extremely baffling and supernatural.

Yes, his mind was his most precious possession and he had opened it to John.

Smirking slightly, he remembered the wild speculation he had read in one of the dratted tabloids when he was still Sherlock Holmes and not the beggar on the corner. It hinted at a more than platonic relationship between the two. For days it had mystified him, until he attributed it to people with dangerously low grey matter having too much time on their hands than they knew what to do with, and then promptly dismissed it. However, it had been so hilarious that he hadn’t deleted it yet.

He almost laughed out loud. All his life he had kept emotions at bay. Emotions were fickle. Untrustworthy. They didn’t have a place in the mental domain he lived in. The idle gossip- that for some reason bothered John- was in truth harmless, and just that- idle gossip.

Sherlock Holmes had never wasted his time in establishing relationships and attachments- well, relationships beyond his friendships and those were the only ones he didn’t regret despite all that happened. _Not my area_ , he had told John. And, it wasn’t. His was the realm of the thinkers. John’s was the whole heart department. Ironic really, since all emotion was caused by the brain and not, the heart. The multifaceted, multitasking brain would always be superior to the blood pumping organ. Sherlock scoffed.

It was time. His intended target would be coming his way. A movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention and the door to this room shut with a resounding click. There would be time again for memories and introspection.

Hugh Boon, entrepreneur, drug dealer and twenty-seventh in line for inheriting the empire of Moriarty passed the beggar, engrossed in his telephone call. As he turned the corner, Sherlock stood up silently and stalked after his target, the familiar rush of the chase flooding his body, sharpening his mind. This was what he lived for.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos to those who caught the Canon-ACD reference. ;)


End file.
